


Infiltrator Tits

by ApocalypseThen



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Breasts, Control, F/F, Mass Effect Kink Meme, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-13 07:40:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4513554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApocalypseThen/pseuds/ApocalypseThen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shepard finds out what Miranda really did to her during the Lazarus project.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tits of a Hero

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for the kink meme. I was going to play it for laughs... oh well ;)
> 
> 26 Aug 2015: I think I might write a bit more. I don't know why. Tits In Peril, maybe? 
> 
> 10 Aug 2015: Now updated after some constructive feedback! Hopefully it is less completely nuts. It still about breast appreciation and mind control... so there's that.
> 
> The original prompt, which I haven't followed too closely:  
> http://masseffectkink.livejournal.com/9115.html?thread=43438491#t43438491
>
>>   
> During the Lazarus Project, Miranda couldn't help but be attracted to Shepard's breasts. They were bigger than any asari, and curiosity got the better of her.
>> 
>> Later after the war, Shepard wants to feel what Miranda did to her breasts.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a revised version, after very useful feedback from phwise (see comments). I'm sure it's better now! It goes on in chapter 2...

_Sequence #1 0134 16-Jan-2185  
Miranda Lawson configures her omnitool to scan Shepard's naked body, very much still a work in progress. She begins to explore, in a clinical way, the response to various stimuli. She touches every centimeter of skin, making no distinction, playing no favourites. The lips get as much attention as the ears. She repeats the experiment with heat, cold, and with a wicked-looking needle probe, pain. Her omnitool records, displays graphs of physiological responses._

Shepard recalled how she had come across this particular piece of footage. Deep within the Illusive Man's lair, on her way to a confrontation that he had anticipated and side-stepped, the slippery bastard, she had found the archives of the Lazarus project. It had been barely relevant at the time, although she had reviewed it quickly on their way to Earth just to make sure that she had been told the truth, that there wasn't a secret control chip in her head, just waiting to be activated and turn her into another of his helpless pawns. She hadn't found this sequence of recordings until now. There were nearly a hundred of them.

_Sequence #13 0211 30-Jan-2185  
Miranda scans her omnitool slowly along Shepard's body. She follows a simple color-code that tells her where and when to touch, whether to apply a gentle caress or if she should squeeze a fold of flesh in a rough pinch. A display in the background monitors brain activity. Miranda spends some time with her hand between Shepard's legs, but she seems clinically detached, focussed and dutiful but not engaged. She doesn't seem satisfied with the results that she's getting. She strides off and the recording ends._

Shepard's extended convalescence was nearing its end. While she still received daily physical therapy, her wounds had largely healed. Her mental state was still fragile, however. One minute she was fine, the next an innocuous event or passing thought could trigger waves of sadness and despair that made it difficult to function. Survivor guilt, they called it. So many fallen comrades, and friends to remember. She hadn't seen any of her old crew in months. They brought too many memories with them. She hadn't left the house much, either.

_Sequence #17 0121 03-Feb-2185  
Miranda has made a breakthrough. She confirms it by repeating the same motions in many variations. As she strokes Shepard's breasts her omnitool lights up like a Christmas tree. She tries different configurations of fingers, different levels of force. She tweaks at a nipple that stands hard and ready, responsive to the attention. Looking around to make sure nobody is watching, Miranda tentatively lowers her lips to one breast and kisses it chastely. The brain wave monitor shows an unusual spike._

Shepard hadn't had a sexual thought in months. She'd spent her days in introspection, when she wasn't seeing to the needs of her broken body, but it had been too painful to think about her former lovers, dead and gone. She hadn't had a lot of time even before the war for relationships, although she'd been content enough to take care of that itch whenever it needed scratching. She wasn't sure what to feel as she watched these recordings, but she was pleasantly surprised when she noticed her hand had taken up residence between her legs, and while it wasn't doing much at the moment, it felt good to have a little pressure down there.

_Sequence #32 0100 20-Feb-2185  
Miranda, eyes focussed on her omnitool, now pays attention almost exclusively to Shepard's breasts, stroking and cupping them in a series of defined configurations, toying with the nipples, teasing an errant hair that rises from an areola. She lowers her mouth to each one in turn, licking delicately around them, up them, flicking the nipples with her tongue, drawing them into her mouth. They harden and perk up at the attention. The omnitool readings show elevated endorphin levels, biochemical markers spiking, brain activity in certain patterns. Miranda continues lavishing attention on them until her omnitool flashes a signal._

Shepard withdrew her hand from between her legs, satisfied for the first time in a long time. She had always found Miranda attractive, and had enjoyed a few private sessions thinking about her up in her cabin when she was alone. It wasn't just her fully-featured, well presented curves that used to get Shepard excited, but also her incredible competence, organisational skills, coupled to a not-insignificant bad-assery. Shepard knew she was someone she could rely on for good advice. She also knew that Miranda would know a better way to say 'bad-assery' that didn't sound quite so foolish. Bad-assness? Bad-assitude? Her brains were another part of her charm. 

_Sequence #35 0104 24-Feb-2185  
Playing out almost precisely as before, Miranda performs exactly the same actions, ministers to Shepard's unconscious breasts and nipples, until her omnitool signals the end. Miranda seems to be going through the motions dutifully, but she looks bored and tired._

Shepard wasn't sure why she was so turned on by the footage. But she couldn't stop herself from watching more, now that she had started. While she understood that her body was being violated, she couldn't really bring herself to associate her current conscious self with the warm corpse on the slab. She felt almost... jealous? Of the attention that her body had received. It was odd.

_Sequence #52 0058 18-Mar-2185  
Miranda returns for another late night session. While the pattern remains almost identical, Miranda has started to take a few moments before beginning to look over Shepard's body. Leaning on the medical table with one hand, she tucks some errant red hairs behind Shepard's ear, and spends a moment gently wiping some encrustation away from her eyes._

Shepard had to start rationing out the videos. She was going through three a day and thinking about Miranda an awful lot. On the plus side, her psychiatrist seemed a lot happier with her, although Shepard had been quite careful not to talk about why. She was more engaged in their conversations than she had been, and she felt as if she had so much more energy. She went outside to the garden one day and began to potter around, pulling up a few stray weeds. It felt good to handle something dirty, something real.

_Sequence #78 0043 20-Apr-2185  
The lights are dim. Miranda sits by Shepard's unconscious body, which looks a damn sight better than it used to, and talks. Miranda isn't expecting a response from Shepard, although she leaves pauses. There's no sound on the recording, but Miranda's body language is as Shepard remembers when she's in a confessional mood. She doesn't seem distraught. But she seems a lot more relaxed and open than her usual buttoned-up self. After a few minutes she stands, smooths down her outfit, and begins the by-now traditional sequence of manipulations._

Shepard had run out of footage to review. She could feel despair flexing it's muscles at the back of her mind, but she was determined not to give in, this time. She tried to figure out what to do.

She knew that Miranda wasn't gay. The motivation behind this molestation surely couldn't be sexual. The sequence of vids told their own story. This was some kind of experiment, or another form of rehabilitation. Miranda was clearly doing a job, although towards the end it seemed like she was getting some kind of comfort from the encounters, which occurred nearly daily according to the time stamps, almost always at the same hour, late at night. Perhaps it was Miranda's equivalent of brushing her teeth and washing her face before bed. Go, talk out your dull quotidian problems with your unconscious pal, lick her tits and then off to a good night's sleep, day complete. Your day finished on a high with a perfect, perky little breast in your mouth, and you could cross another task off your to-do list.

Shepard took a few minutes to entertain the fantasy that she was Miranda's little comfort blanket.

As she was washing her hands, it occurred to her, a really outrageous idea that set her heart racing, adrenaline flooding her, a tremor in her gut that made her think about the best times she had spent playing games like laser tag and paintball, rather than the worst she had spent huddling in cover on the battlefield with her heart in her mouth.

She might leave the house today. She might go somewhere where people were. And she wouldn't give a damn about the stares, or the praise, or feeling like a fraud. She had a mission. She was going to see Miranda.

Shepard quickly pulled on a pair of plain black jeans and a simple black shirt that fitted her snugly. She called a cab and was on her way in minutes. She was taking advantage of the mood that gripped her while it lasted.

The cab dropped her off at the headquarters of Alliance R&D. She was shooed through security, her face almost as good as her ID. Even though she was on leave and out of uniform she returned the rather formal salutes from all of the soldiers that she passed. Fortunately the military men and women didn't embarrass themselves by gushing or asking for her autograph. The most they would do was give her their full attention as she went by, standing straight and tall. It started to come back to her, how to hold her head high, how to walk with a purpose, how to project that don't-fuck-with-me aura that the galaxy knew from the newsreels. She was feeling a lot more like her old self by the time she reached Miranda's office. 

Miranda waved away her assistant and stood up as Shepard came in, a warm smile breaking out on her usually stern arrangement of features. “Shepard,” she said. “It's good to see you.” Miranda came out from behind her desk and offered her a hug.

Shepard felt her nipples stiffen through her thin shirt as Miranda pressed lightly against her. Miranda was dressed in her usual attire, her skintight costume that weaponised her considerable assets. “It's good to see you too, Miranda,” replied Shepard. “I thought they'd have you in an Alliance uniform by now.”

“I'm still a private contractor,” said Miranda. “Although one with a very high security clearance.” Miranda half turned and lay a hand on her hip suggestively. “And besides. They didn't have my size.”

Shepard actually laughed. She looked confused for a moment, unfamiliar with the sound she had just made. “Do you have some time to talk, Miranda?” she asked.

“Of course, Shepard. Clear my afternoon,” Miranda addressed her assistant, an attractive young man in uniform who had been waiting patiently to one side of the spacious office.

“Can I bring you anything?” he asked solicitously as he backed out of the room.

Shepard shook her head in response to Miranda's interrogative look. “No, thank you. See that we aren't disturbed,” Miranda replied. The assistant closed the door behind him and engaged the privacy lock. “Just a moment, Shepard,” said Miranda, holding up a finger. She brought up her omnitool and ran a program. “There. That should keep the spooks downstairs happy.”

“They're still watching you?” asked Shepard.

“They watch everybody, these days. Looking for Cerberus remnants, hints of indoctrination.” Miranda shrugged. “It's what I would do.” She walked over to sit in an armchair, and offered Shepard the sofa. “That nice young man sends in reports on me as well.” 

Taking her seat, Shepard had a sudden thought that brought colour to her cheeks. Miranda had had the Normandy fairly thoroughly bugged, for a while, before Mordin and Tali had gone over the place and deactivated all of her devices. They'd removed a few from her cabin. Which probably meant that Miranda had seen her... um. Playing with herself. She hoped to god she hadn't been vocal.

“So what can I do for you, Shepard?” asked Miranda. “Or is this just a social call?”

Shepard hadn't thought this far ahead. She wanted some answers, but wasn't interested in a confrontation. The time for regrets and acrimony were past. She looked at Miranda, an unreadable expression on her face, as she decided slowly what to say. Miranda waited patiently. “I don't know how to ask this, Miranda,” began Shepard. “I've been... not myself, for a long time now.”

“You can ask me anything, Shepard,” replied Miranda. There was a moment's silence.

“You're... you're the first person I've wanted to talk to since... you know.” Shepard was looking down at her hands, and felt her resolve waver. But she thought back to how she had felt earlier that day, the excitement coursing through her, and she made an effort to relax. She spread her arms out on the back of the sofa, opening up her body language, trying to bring down the defensive barriers that she had been building against the world. “I... saw some videos. They got me thinking about you. And I had some questions.”

Miranda waited silently for her to continue. “We're friends, aren't we Miranda?” she asked.

“Never doubt it, Shepard,” replied Miranda.

“I want to know about... about what you did on the Lazarus project,” said Shepard. “The things you didn't tell me about, before.” She paused, and looked into Miranda's eyes. “The things you were doing to my breasts.” As she said it, she was conscious that her position on the sofa, arms wide, leaning back comfortably, made them poke out to a modest degree, and the very act of thinking about it, and the tightness of her shirt, made them stiffen up. She wondered if Miranda was aware of it, if her long association with her nipples had heightened her sensitivity to communication through this other channel. She realised that she hadn't even thought about putting on a bra before leaving the house.

Miranda looked down and to the side demurely. Shepard waited for her response, trying to reassure Miranda through her very calmness. “So you found out about that,” she said, a little sadly. “I'm sorry Shepard. You were never meant to know.”

This time it was Shepard's turn to wait patiently. “Let me start by saying that I'm ashamed of who I was, before I met you,” Miranda continued. “You changed me, and I'm grateful.” She stood and paced the room, obviously nervous. She turned to face Shepard from behind another armchair, a defensive posture. “It was my own initiative. After the Illusive Man refused to let me put a control chip in your head, I decided I needed a backup plan.”

Shepard remembered. She had been angry, but not surprised about that idea. She understood the motivation, even if she didn't agree with it, and once she got to know Miranda better, she realised where it came from, the need to control everything around her, to leave nothing to chance. Her father loomed large in her psychology.

“I did some research. I took some readings. And everything pointed to a certain type of protocol.” Miranda seemed uncomfortable with specifics. 

Shepard decided to help her out. “A protocol involving my boobs.”

Miranda smiled weakly at Shepard's choice of words. “That was where the results led me. Your reactions were off the charts. Your unconscious mind reacted so strongly... I used genetic algorithms, neural feedback, hormone manipulation, to focus and enhance that response, so it was keyed only to a certain sequence.”

Shepard was amazed. The things they could do with science, when they weren't bothered by ethics. “I guess they've always been sensitive, but you... programmed my breasts?” she asked. “What was that supposed to do?”

“No. I programmed your body to respond with an enhanced endorphin release, when I... ran the protocol,” Miranda replied, still shy about using the words, keeping her gaze on Shepard's face, unable to look her square in the tits like a decent person would.

“So... how would you have used that to control me?” asked Shepard.

“It wouldn't have been like a control chip,” replied Miranda. “I would have had to... seduce you. Which probably wouldn't have been difficult,” she added slyly, a bit of her natural confidence surfacing.

Shepard felt a lump in her throat. She blushed and coughed, looking away for a moment. “Then... do I have to spell it out?” said Miranda.

Shepard shook her head. “There's no...” she started, but her throat was dry. She tried again: “There's no need. But what would it have done?”

“You'd have been in a suggestible state. Docile. Easy to persuade. You'd remember everything, but you wouldn't mind,” Miranda said matter-of-factly. She returned to sit in her armchair, an urgency about her movements. “Shepard, if anyone else ever finds out, you'd be vulnerable. We can't let that happen.”

“Well, as far as I know, only you and me know anything about this,” replied Shepard.

“And anyone else who happens to have a copy of the Lazarus archive and enough smarts to figure it out,” said Miranda, clearly not convinced. “I know the archive wasn't widely distributed, but... can you afford to take that risk?”

Shepard felt a hint of worry at the idea that just anyone could, like punching a code into a keypad, boot her up in safe-mode. She'd definitely be investing in some more defensively-oriented brasserie. And yet... the thought of Miranda caressing her, taking charge of her body and her mind... she felt a shameful flush of arousal at the idea of being controlled by this confident, arrogant, beautiful woman. “Well, can you undo it?” she asked, shaking free of the tempting scenarios flashing through her head.

“Maybe,” Miranda said. “I think so. Yes.”

“You sound uncertain, Miranda,” said Shepard.

“It's not that,” said Miranda. “It's just that I would have to... actually do it to you. Run the protocol. Then I could tell you, basically, to ignore all further instructions.” Miranda looked decidedly uncomfortable.

Shepard, meanwhile, felt her heart flip-flop. She'd been pleasuring herself at the thought of Miranda's lips on her breasts for the past several weeks. Now she was being offered just that. 

“I get it, Shepard,” said Miranda, interpreting her silence as disapproval. “You don't trust me. I'll find some other way.”

“No!” said Shepard, a little bit too quickly. “It's OK. You've changed. I was a bit surprised. But if it's the best way. How do you want me?” she asked.

“Here?” asked Miranda. “Now?”

“You want to take me to dinner first?” asked Shepard, smirking. 

“You're right. The sooner we get this done, the better.” Miranda, Shepard knew, had a special gear reserved for all-or-nothing missions, and she was stepping into it right now. “Take off your shirt and lie down.”

Shepard complied quickly, anticipation and nerves building within her. Her breathing became rapid and she started to sweat against the sofa leather where it touched her bare skin. Miranda tied her hair back and moved the coffee table out of the way before kneeling in front of the sofa. She took Shepard's hand, and caressed her brow. “Shepard,” she said. “This won't hurt a bit.”

Shepard had always enjoyed having her breasts caressed. She hadn't had a partner for long enough in the last several years to really get them to appreciate quite how much she liked it. They were small, perfect little handfuls, well defined and responsive, with pert strawberry nipples that liked to stand stiff at attention and could take a remarkable degree of punishment. But she had never in her life experienced anything like this. Miranda's 'protocol' was the distillation of every conscientious, attentive lover that she had ever had, or, she got the impression, could ever have. It gave her body not what it wanted, but what it so desperately needed, making her arch her back and beg, when she could find her voice and not simply gasp in delight, tantalising her, taking her to ride the edge of annihilation and keeping her teetering there. 

Clearly, Miranda was not expecting such a powerful response, her only experience being on an unconscious subject, but Shepard flailed her limbs and grasped at Miranda's hair as she circled carefully in, paying her dues, taking the time to set both nipples to their maximum sensitivity, their glass-cutting hardest. Several times she lost her place and had to restart the protocol from the beginning, which drove Shepard wild with frustration. Soon Shepard was gabbling a constant stream of promises and imprecations, chief among them “take me” followed by Miranda's name, drawn out and at considerable volume, “don't let go” playing a strong supporting role.

Finally Miranda broke through the last of Shepard's defenses, and brought her protocol to an end, her teeth grazing the tips of Shepard's nipple as it slid slowly out of the vacuum of her lips. It was too much. Shepard felt a gush of wetness between her legs, her entire body relaxed as a wave of heat flooded through her, from toes to crown. Miranda made sure to treat the other nipple fairly, and it happened again. Shepard was adrift on the wave of feeling, she couldn't move a muscle, she was lost to the treatment she was receiving. 

As the rush of her orgasm died down, a warm daze enveloped her. Shepard was floating, her aches and pains forgotten, her entire body thrumming like a bass note on a huge instrument. Miranda appeared above her and leant down to whisper in her ear.

“Sit up,” she said. Shepard searched for her hand and used it to lever herself up into a sitting position. Miranda sat next to her on the couch. “Did you like that, Shepard?” she asked, her arm around Shepard's shoulders.

Shepard nodded, and tears welled in her eyes. “I really needed that. I really wanted that,” she said, uninhibited about sharing her feelings.

Miranda was not unaffected either. “I never thought it would be like this. I...” she started, but couldn't continue.

“It's OK, Miranda,” said Shepard, feeling a clarity of perception and an honesty that she would otherwise have always kept hidden, that would last only as long as the biochemical rush she was experiencing. “It's OK for you to like it.” She turned her face to Miranda, a broad smile on her face. “The power. It's OK to like the power. I wouldn't want anyone else.”

Miranda looked shyly back. “In that case, Shepard,” she said, “I instruct you to ignore all instructions issued to you following the Lazarus protocol. Except those issued by me.”

“Understood,” said Shepard, and her eyelids drooped, and she drifted off, a dreamy expression on her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was brought to you by _Infiltrator Tits_ TM.  
> "They get inside your mind."


	2. Tits out, soldier!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is now a proper second chapter! Original version has been suppressed for reasons of being 'just plain nuts'.

Of course, months of subliminal conditioning couldn't be undone in just one session. No, Shepard would have to come back once every... eight days or so, to gradually roll back the unconscious triggers that made her vulnerable, to build up her defenses against unsolicited fondling. Weekly would work better for her schedule, Miranda said. She had a slot on a Wednesday afternoon that she could open up.

Shepard found herself in Miranda's waiting room, unable to sit still. She had barged in the first time, but since then Miranda hadn't been able to set aside more than half an hour to see to Shepard's therapy. And every time, her preceding meetings seemed to run later and later, leaving Shepard waiting, squirming on the leather sofas, trying to subtly rearrange her underwear without attracting the attention of Miranda's handsome young assistant. 

After a week she was desperate for the treatment that Miranda gave her. She'd tried playing with herself, but couldn't seem to replicate the precise sequence of motions, or combinations of triggers that were required. And she couldn't risk getting anyone else to help her out. She'd be putty in their hands. She was just glad that Miranda could find the time with all the other work that she had going on.

Finally, forty-five minutes after the scheduled time, she heard Miranda's voice over the intercom, and leapt up from the sofa before the assistant even had time to open his mouth. Pausing before opening the door, she straightened her clothes and adjusted her beret. She couldn't do anything about her nipples, hard as rocks with anticipation, poking visibly through the thin material of her shirt.

“Shepard,” said Miranda. “I'm sorry for the delay.”

Shepard stood calmly in front of Miranda's desk and let her hands come together behind her back. Everything was OK now, she had Miranda's attention and she wouldn't have to wait much longer. She felt herself relax into a familiar parade rest position. “That's perfectly alright, Miranda. I know how busy you are.”

“Trying something new with your hair?” asked Miranda.

Shepard had, for a change, tried a side parting and had slicked it down with gel. She'd been looking in the mirror and had felt the need to be a bit more... imposing. Less girlish. It felt tidy, squared-away. She'd picked clothes accordingly. Although she wasn't back in uniform, she'd chosen a form-fitting shirt with shoulder straps, rolled the sleeves up and tucked it in to her matt black jeans. At the last minute, she'd had her doubts about the hairstyle and had hidden it under a beret. The overall effect gave her an undeniably military bearing, nearly compensating for the lingering deficit in self-confidence that she still felt.

But in front of Miranda, she didn't notice that lack. While Miranda was focused on her, she was attentive and self-assured. Miranda's presence, her kind regard, made her feel safe. 

“I felt like... being a bit more serious,” replied Shepard, finally.

“You look good, Shepard,” said Miranda. “Fierce.”

Shepard's cheeks warmed at the praise. “Thank you, m...” she said, holding her chin up high. Ma'am, she had wanted to add. “Miranda,” she finished, belatedly.

Miranda had a knowing smile for that. Shepard's blush deepened. She couldn't fool Miranda, who was deeper inside her head than anyone had ever been, not parents, lovers, or friends, thanks to her outrageously unethical, but enormously fun biofeedback experiments on Shepard's breasts. Her nipples were still trying to cut their way through the confinement of her shirt, but Miranda wasn't quite ready for that part of the agenda yet.

“Something's come up, Shepard,” said Miranda, leaning forward to place her elbows on the desk, incidentally giving Shepard a good angle on the valley of her ample cleavage. “I have a job that needs taking care of. A sensitive matter. Outside the usual channels.”

Shepard's heart was suddenly in her mouth. Her tongue felt thick. She wasn't ready for things to change. And yet... she could impress Miranda, if she seized the opportunity. If she performed well at the task. Miranda was watching her carefully, and now her regard was less comforting than insistent, coldly analytical. She didn't want to suffer that gaze any longer. “What do you want me to do, m... Miranda?” she asked, making the same mistake again.

“Just say it, if it makes you feel better, Shepard,” replied Miranda, casually. “I don't mind.” Then she got down to business. “A rather high level Cerberus operative has managed to get their hands on some sensitive data. I don't have a lot of details. I'm not sure exactly what was stolen, or of the identity of the operative. There's something about the style that points to a cell leader of similar experience to myself.” Miranda stood and began to pace. Shepard tracked her with her eyes.

“So... why can't you go through normal channels, then?” asked Shepard.

“With my own past... I'm the first, most logical suspect. In fact, as soon as we're done here, I'm calling counter-intelligence to report everything,” said Miranda. Shepard's heart sank. Her expression must have been easy to read. “Yes, I know. Even if I can convince them I'm clean, they'll tie me up in red tape for weeks clearing it up. I won't be able to see you. And the thief will get clean away. But I have a lead... well, more of an instinct. Nothing the brass would act on.” Miranda came to stand in front of her, and looked down demurely. “That's why I need you,” she said.

Shepard didn't even hesitate. Maybe it was her desperate need to feel Miranda's lips on her breasts one more time, or just the familiar stirring of her old loyalties, her firmest and most reliable motivations. Crew, comrades, the chain of command. They were all her family, and she would do anything for them. And she had a special bond with Miranda, who'd changed so much for her. 

“Yes, ma'am,” she said. It felt like the right thing to say, and the right way to say it. She hadn't been very responsible these last several months. She'd been reclusive, introspective. Sulking, really. It was time to get back into play. She was Commander-bloody-Shepard, and she had asses to kick and galaxies to save, fair maidens to rescue, diplomats to charm and discounts to negotiate at all major retailers.

Miranda's cheeks pinkened slightly as she heard Shepard's acknowledgement of her superior status. “Then there's only one thing left to do, isn't there soldier?” said Miranda, a mischievous look in her eyes.

As Miranda took her hand and guided her to the couch, Shepard felt the thousand questions she had blur and fade as her tits started to pulse in anticipation of what was to come. While Miranda worked her way through the protocol as methodically as ever, Shepard was transported to that place of clarity that had grown in scope each time they performed this ritual. She saw so clearly how Miranda manipulated her, but it was nothing that hadn't come from within her, nothing that she didn't want or enjoy. She had been incomplete without exploring her submissive side before. Miranda hadn't so much been implanting suggestions as encouraging the old Shepard out of her shell, and beyond, to a newer, more self-aware model. She couldn't complain about being commanded by someone so reliable, who made so much sense. She relished it, the feeling of giving up control, of being used as a tool by someone who knew her strengths, her limits, better than she did herself. Her recent change of appearance, she recognised, while it had been her own idea, had needed Miranda's approval and recognition to give her the courage to stand up tall, to dress and act like a soldier again. God, even the ever-longer time spent in the waiting room was all part of the plan.

Fuck, she loved every second of this treatment, everything was so easy, she only had to lie back and be taken away, her own inner voice and Miranda's instructions synchronising, synthesising perfectly. No-one had ever understood her so well. As her nipple slid free of Miranda's lips, the programmed biochemical flood overtook her.

“Shepard,” whispered Miranda, “my soldier. You're ready. I know you are. I need you to go to Ilium. Details are on your omnitool. And Shepard... don't let anyone else touch you. Not like I do. They won't understand you. Not like I do.”

“Understood,” replied Shepard, before sleep took her.


	3. Tits in Peril

“Shepard?” asked a familiar voice. “Can you hear me, Shepard?” Her vision swam into focus slowly. Her head felt strange, cottony.

“Samantha?” she asked, as the chocolate brown haze above her sharpened into the features of her favourite comm specialist. “Where am I? What are you doing here?” As her awareness returned, she realised that she was horizontal, prone, unable to move. “What's going on?”

“Calm down, Commander,” said Samantha. “We're on Ilium. You arrived here a few days ago. You made contact with someone we've been watching. When we approached you, you attacked us, and ran. We chased you down and picked you up. This is an Alliance medical facility. You're perfectly safe. Do you remember any of this?”

Shepard remembered reaching Ilium on an Alliance vessel. Hitching a ride on a troop transport, effectively, trading on her reputation to keep it off the books. Just another marine shipping out. But after that... images. Nothing concrete. An asari face. Flashes of light. “It's fuzzy.” She jerked her arm against the restraints. “Do you have me tied down, Traynor?”

“Oh, I wish, Shepard,” she said lightly. “I'm sorry, but it's for your own protection.” She paced around so that Shepard could see her more clearly. A neatly pressed Alliance uniform, her face serious. Shepard thought she looked well rested. Better than she had during the war, anyway.

“It's good to see you again, Samantha,” Shepard said. “But could you maybe untie me now?”

Samantha smiled at her, her angelic smile complete with a tuck of her hair behind her ear. “I'm sorry, Shepard,” she repeated. “But we think she might have done something to you. We don't think it's safe.”

“She... who? The asari?” asked Shepard.

“There was an asari,” replied Samantha. “But not her. I mean, Miranda. We think she's done something to you. You might not even realise it.” Samantha seemed upset. “We think that's why you attacked us. Perhaps it's why your memory's unclear too.” She took a deep breath. “Shepard, we need to know what Miranda's up to. She's disappeared. It must have been right after you left Earth. We think she might be working with Cerberus.”

Shepard stared up at the ceiling, shocked. Could Miranda really have been lying to her, to everyone for so long? “Cerberus? No way. Not Miranda. Not after everything she's been through with them,” she said, finally. “Anyway, they barely exist any more, don't they? I thought we took them down hard.”

“You've been away a while, Shepard,” replied Samantha, a little bitterly. “If there's one thing Cerberus does, it's thrive on chaos. And there was plenty of that, for a few months.” 

Shepard couldn't argue with that. But she couldn't believe that Miranda was working with the old enemy again. Could she? Or perhaps, a chilling thought occurred to her, Miranda had been brainwashing her and she didn't even know it... but surely, just the fact that she could entertain that notion, meant that she wasn't brainwashed? Or was she really programmed like a robot? No, the Lazarus protocol couldn't do that, could it? Of course, she only had Miranda's word for that...

Shepard wasn't sure if she had doubts or not. She was oscillating between confidence and panic. Well, never mind, Samantha was trustworthy, and at least as brainy as Miranda. They'd get this cleared up between them. “So what now, Samantha?” she asked.

Samantha blushed suddenly and wouldn't meet her eye. “I... I'm sorry, Commander. We think there's only one way to be sure,” she said nervously. Ominously, Shepard thought.

“Come on, Sam,” encouraged Shepard. “We've been in worse situations. Hey, did you get a new toothbrush in the end?”

“Shepard. Trust you to be all cool and collected.” Samantha held her head in her hands. “This is so embarrassing. I wouldn't have believed it until they showed me the vids.”

Shepard felt a twinge of... not fear. Fear and anticipation mixed up. She had a bad feeling that she knew what Samantha was going to say next, but she wasn't about to let anything slip.

“Let me just preface this by saying, that I think this is utterly foolish,” Samantha continued. “But they want me to do something to you. To your. Um.” She leaned in close and whispered. “ _Breasts._ ”

Oh, crap, thought Shepard. Here we go again. She should just resign herself to being toyed with by every gorgeous female scientist she met from now on.

Samantha was nervous, but even her apprehension couldn't conceal her sheer glee at getting an eyeful of Shepard's perfect perky pair as she undid the snug fitting uniform shirt. “Bet you never expected it to be like this, Specialist?”

“No, ma'am,” replied Samantha automatically, talking to the boobs. “Sorry, sorry, I'll be as quick as I can, really, I'm sure it's all rubbish, I mean, I wouldn't be doing this if it wasn't serious.” She stopped and took a deep breath. “Shepard. I can't promise I won't be enjoying myself. But this is for science. Honestly.”

“I'm just glad it's you, and not Joker,” replied Shepard. Samantha smiled weakly, but didn't reply. They could be bantering all day.

And so it began, again. Samantha was less certain of herself, of which moves came before which, of which breast had to be touched when and just how, but Shepard couldn't control herself any more than she could under Miranda's guidance, her arms and legs straining against the restraints, her back arching to bring her breasts closer to Samantha's hot little mouth. It was tantalisingly slow compared to Miranda's efficient repetitions, and Samantha was obviously quite aroused herself, but she remained professional throughout, taking cues from her omnitool and nearly getting all the way through several times without cocking up and having to restart from the beginning... but Shepard was too far gone to suspect her of drawing it out, at that point. A part of her actually thought that being tied down added a little something to the experience. Still, she'd done worse things in the service of the Alliance.

It came to the part where Samantha sucked those perfect strawberry nipples between her moist lips, vacuuming them up and rolling them under her tongue before popping them out, the part where Shepard's body flooded with a crushing wave of pleasure and relief.

“You look so cute, Sam,” said Shepard, in her dreamy, post-protocol disinhibited state. Samantha was sweaty, flustered, rather pleased with herself, and obviously desperate for five minutes alone, but bound to be dutiful, an utterly adorable combination in Shepard's eyes. “Can we cuddle?”

“Maybe in a minute, Shepard,” replied Samantha. “First you have to tell me what Miranda's planning. What does she want? Why did she send you here? What's she going to do?”

Shepard felt an icy coolness flood her veins, something dampening down her desire, staying her tongue. Oh, well. Perhaps Miranda's training had been good for something. But then something bubbled up inside her, an urge, and she just had to let it out. “Fuck you, Brynn!” Woah. Where had that come from?

Samantha looked aghast. Shepard fought against it, but sleep was taking her, as it usually did after her treatments, but as her eyes drooped shut, she saw another figure entering the room where she was being held. Another dark-skinned woman. In a familiar uniform. Black, white, and yellow.

“Yet again you disappoint, Traynor,” she heard, in a familiar voice. “Now we do it my way.”


	4. Tits, meet butts

Shepard awoke to a very similar situation. A dark, beautiful woman was craning over her restrained form. Shepard recognised her. Dr Brynn Cole, refugee from Cerberus, mother of Jacob Taylor's child (last she had heard). But something was wrong. The Cerberus uniform. That wasn't right.

“Brynn?” said Shepard. “Hi!” She was trying for levity. Maybe she could convince Brynn that she was clueless. “How's the little one? What did you end up calling her, anyway? You're looking good.”

Brynn's lips compressed into a thin line. “I thought Traynor would be able to manipulate you adequately, Shepard,” she began. “But I suppose I was wrong. You're just as stubborn as I remember.” She walked down to the end of the table where Shepard was held captive. “Miranda's evidently got you well trained. But I've had time to refine the Lazarus protocol. I've augmented it. Your resistance won't last long.”

“Is this the part where you tell me you're not indoctrinated, then shoot yourself in the head?” asked Shepard, pointedly.

Brynn's expression darkenend further. “Before the reapers, Shepard, Cerberus stood for something. For the interests of humanity in a cold dark universe. I've never stopped believing that. And then you sold us out, to the asari, to the turians, to the damn krogan.”

“So this is personal?” asked Shepard.

“No, Shepard. You're just a distraction. An opportunity I can take advantage of. Imagine what Cerberus could do, with you as it's figurehead. Once I have you properly reprogrammed, that is.” Any decent villain would be cackling and rubbing their hands together with glee, but Brynn sounded a little regretful, if anything. 

“It doesn't work that way, Brynn,” said Shepard, confidently.

“Is that what Miranda told you?” replied Brynn. “I wonder what else she's misled you about. I've made some improvements to the protocol, since she developed it. Some modifications that I think you'll find... persuasive.” Ah, now they were getting into proper mad-scientist territory. 

Shepard's confidence never wavered, however. Her involuntary cry of Brynn's name after the execution of the protocol must have been planted in her subconscious by Miranda, to come out in just such a circumstance. It was a message, that Miranda had known exactly who the traitor to the Alliance was, and that their stolen data included the Lazarus files. Sending her off ignorant, vulnerable, like that... she was bait. It was the only explanation. Miranda was using her to flush Brynn out of cover. 

Shepard shook her head mentally at the audacity of Miranda's high-risk strategy. She supposed she should have expected something so dramatic. Miranda didn't take half-measures. And now she had sent her perfect soldier into the fray. All she had to do was hold out against the brainwashing for long enough to figure out a way to kick some Cerberus ass. Hopefully Miranda had prepared her well. If she had implanted one secret directive, what others could be lurking in there, waiting to be triggered? Maybe some poetry. That would be nice.

“Just relax, Shepard,” said Brynn, tapping at her omnitool. “Let me show you how this works. We have a couple of hours before you're ready for your next treatment, anyway.” The table that Shepard was on tilted up to a more vertical position. Her restraints held her firmly in place. A vid screen in front of her came to life. “I suspected that idiot Traynor wasn't fully under my control. And her failure with you simply proves it to me. I've sent her for further training. Perhaps you'd like to watch.”

Relief flooded through Shepard. Thank god, Samantha wasn't voluntarily with Cerberus. She'd found that difficult to believe, after they'd spent so much time and effort hunting down the rogue organisation together. After they'd killed her entire family.

But now Samantha was on the video screen, her uniform trousers around her ankles, the shirt hanging open. She was restrained, bent over a medical table, her arms out to either side, her ankles pinned. She was utterly vulnerable. An immersive display unit covered her eyes and ears completely. Probes and wires intruded into and dangled from her genitalia, her nipples, there was even something filling her mouth. Behind her there was a machine of some description that was currently inactive.

“Brynn?” said Shepard, calmly. “Just so you know. Everything you do to her? I'll make sure is done to you. Twice.”

“I'm willing to take that chance, Shepard,” replied Brynn. “Rather than face a galaxy where humans are second-class citizens.” She spoke to her communicator. “Begin.”

The sound was turned up. Shepard could hear Samantha immediately begin to whimper around the device in her mouth. In one corner of the screen there was an overlay of what was being shown to her on the headset. A forest at night. In the other corner, readouts and graphs ticking up, up, up. Familiar indicators from Shepard's experience with the recordings from the Lazarus files, and some others.

Then the strokes began. Samantha's beautiful, smooth, rounded ass, toned from long hours spent bent over a console, was struck by paddles attached to the machine that stood behind her. Ten strokes on each side, alternating. The graphs spiked and fell on each stroke, the baseline stepping up each time.

Emerging from the forest, a silver rider, luminous in the moonlight. No, a knight in armor.

Ten more strokes. Wails and whimpers and jerks from Samantha. A smooth acceleration of the indicators; pain and pleasure, fear and arousal.

The knight dismounted. The armor was thin, skintight, conforming to an idealised female form. 

Samantha's ass was struck again and again. She shivered and strained against her restraints.

The knight flipped back her helmet. Shepard's face looked out, her flaming red hair, her deep green eyes, her constellation of freckles. When she spoke, it was in EDI's voice. “My lady,” said the knight, kneeling. “I have come for you.”

The spanking reached a crescendo, with six paddles flying through the air at once, beating a tattoo onto Samantha's reddened, tender backside. She convulsed, the graphs flashing, indicating some kind of milestone.

The knight and the forest blanked out, to be replaced by a Cerberus symbol. “Who do you work for?” asked a neutral, artificial voice.

“Alliance marine, Traynor, Samantha, serial number...” Samantha replied in an exhausted monotone. Shepard was elated to see her still maintaining resistance.

The voice interrupted her. “You work for Cerberus. Humanity comes first. Cerberus comes first. You obey Dr Cole...” and on it went, until Samantha's posture relaxed completely, and it was clear she was asleep.

Then the paddling machine applied medi-gel to the newly blossoming bruises on her behind.

“She should be ready for another round in three hours or so,” said Brynn to Shepard, apparently quite satisfied. “Six times a day. Every day. Until she comes around.” And was that more than satisfaction that Shepard saw in Brynn's expression? Was there a lascivious hint of desire? “Our protocol works on all the senses, adaptively generating realistic scenarios... well. You know a little bit more about the real Traynor now.”

“Uh-huh,” said Shepard, who had been taking the opportunity to test the rigourousness of her bonds while Brynn had been focussed on monitoring the session. Was there enough give? She had a couple of hours to find out. But that would be too easy, wouldn't it? Surely they realised who they were dealing with? Was this another mind-game? She looked over at Brynn, and she decided that she couldn't start thinking in circles like that. That was Miranda's speciality. If Miranda had got her into this pickle, she wouldn't be expecting her to sit around like a damsel in distress.


	5. Tits to the rescue

“Shepard?”

“Hey, Miranda,” said Shepard, tucking into cover behind the door, pistol at the ready. “What took you so long?”

“How did you...” began Miranda, who had taken up a position on the opposite side of the door. “Never mind. What's the situation?”

“How about you let me do my thing, Miranda?” replied Shepard. “For old times sake? After all, you did send me right into a trap, didn't you?”

“Is now really the time, Shepard?” said Miranda. “I wasn't going to leave you with Brynn any longer than I had to, I promise.”

“Oh, shit, you were hoping to watch her working me over, weren't you?” accused Shepard.

Miranda's response was to fire her pistol at a head that had the temerity to reveal itself at the end of the corridor leading up to the door they were about to storm. “Can we discuss this later, please?”

“Hey, you're not the one being served up like jello to any mad scientist who wants a taste!” Shepard said, punctuating her outburst with semi-automatic suppressing fire.

Miranda licked her lips. “Strawberries and cream, more like.”

“I actually think you _like_ putting my tits in danger,” Shepard replied incredulously. But she couldn't keep the smile off her face as she knocked back an armoured foe with a round to the helmet.

“Maybe you should do up your shirt before we go in there, Shepard?” asked Miranda, peering around the door and clocking the defensible positions.

“Hell, no,” replied Shepard. “I want my perfect boobs to be the last thing they see. My perfect, _angry_ boobs. Uh, hey, that reminds me, we should rescue Samantha.”

“I still get to make a heroic rescue? Count me in,” said Miranda.

“You and I are going to have a nice long talk when this is over, Miranda,” said Shepard with a shake of her head.

\-------------------

A 'battle' is when two armies are fighting, and then Shepard wins.

\-------------------

“Um.”

“Yes,” replied Shepard.

“Every three hours?” asked Miranda.

“On the dot.”

“What does she think that'll do?” Miranda wondered aloud. “The brain can't change that fast. Even doing it every week was pushing it a little.”

“So we should get her out of there, right?” asked Shepard. “It won't do any harm to stop in the middle of a session?”

“Um,” repeated Miranda. “No. But I think, just to be safe, we should wait. And watch.”

“Well, if you think it's best,” said Shepard, whose eyes hadn't left Samantha's bright red ass cheeks the whole time.

“I do. Miranda knows best, Shepard,” she said with a smirk.

Shepard's cheeks flushed. She looked at Miranda with a mixture of irritation and desire, tearing her eyes away from the frankly arousing scene in front of her.

Miranda let out a giggle. “Oh my god, is that supposed to be you?” The virtual knight in Samantha's fantasy program had just revealed her face.

“Wait until you hear the voice,” replied Shepard.

Samantha squirmed and moaned into the mouthpiece that was gagging her reasonably effectively. The two women observing both cleared their throats and scratched their crotches at the same time.

Then they noticed their simultaneous actions, and blushed, and looked away from each other. Then the final flurry of paddling, and the Cerberus logo came onto the screen. Miranda had an excuse to cut in and stop the program before the hypnotic suggestions began in earnest. Samantha was still sticking to her name and number routine, which was gratifying to see.

They disconnected her from the machinery of persuasion. “It's OK, Samantha. We're here now,” Shepard whispered to her. She might not remember their dramatic entrance. But at least she'd know who rescued her.

\-------------------

Back on Earth it was a Wednesday afternoon. Shepard and Samantha were both squirming on the sofa, waiting for Miranda to call them into her office, doing their best to ignore each other. Shepard knew if she so much as _thought_ about Samantha's perfect ass, she'd just lose it completely.

Miranda called them in after keeping them out there for only twenty minutes. The waiting times had been getting shorter and shorter each week. Miranda was responding well to the new protocol. As the two of them approached her desk, she reclined in her chair and fluffed her hair with both hands so that it fell away from her creamy white neck.

Samantha approached from the left. Shepard from the right. They nodded to each other, and lowered their lips to the pulse points that were visible under the flawless translucent skin. As they formed tight seals with their moistened lips, Miranda gasped, and cried out, and gripped the arms of her chair fiercely.

They moved along her neck methodically until the surge took her and she went rigid in her chair for untold seconds, her every muscle straining, small sounds escaping from her clenched teeth. Two beautiful symmetrical lines of hickeys adorned her neck.

“Now Miranda,” began Samantha, “this is what you're going to do...”

“And this is how you're going to do it...” continued Shepard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that about wraps it up. For now :)


End file.
